


Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #3

by DovahDoes



Series: Quote-Inspired Fics (& Ficlets) [3]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Crack-ish, Gen, Jason might prefer there be less, Rook Wildlife, like a lot of it, like dang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third in the series of Quote Challenge responses.<br/>*</p><p>Mother Nature is not always your friend.</p><p>OR</p><p>There needs to be a greater variety of packaging materials on the Rook Islands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quote-Inspired Fics + Ficlets - #3

**Author's Note:**

> So I post a LOT of quotes on my FC3 tumblr, and I thought that it would be A Good Exercise and also maybe A Learning Experience for me to use them as inspiration for some fics and ficlets. 
> 
> Hence, this little series! Hopefully something is to your liking.  
> 

 

_**"I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order." - John Burroughs** _

 

___________

 

Fucking— _fuck_.  What is in the goddamned water on this island?  If it isn't a pirate, it's one of Hoyt's mercenaries.  And if it isn't one of _them_ , then it's one of the cavalcade of carnivorous (or just straight up _mean_ ) animals indigenous to Rook.

 

More often than not, lately, it's been the third of those options.  Just today, Jason has encountered no fewer than four angry felinids, three komodo dragons, two packs of pissed off dingo, and one _very_ persistent cassowary.  Scowling fiercely to himself, he experiences an intense bout of envy for the tiny, tawny primates making their noisy way through the verdant canopy overhead; most _they_ have to deal with is maybe the couple of snakes capable of reaching higher elevations.

 

Not wanting to risk another run-in with one of the aforementioned reptiles, the irate young man returns his focus to his immediate surroundings, noting a familiar, ominous hissing from some thick brush to his right.

 

“Not today, you snake-faced….. snake!” he yells, quickly lighting and tossing a smaller Molotov cocktail with practiced ease, and taking off at a brisk jog to outpace what he is sure will be a bit of a bonfire.  Green leaves the size of his torso brush over his body as he makes his way toward some grassy land free of any dense vegetation.

 

He bends over to brace thoroughly filthy palms on his knees, one of his hands meeting scraped, raw skin through the biggest of several gashes in the thick canvas-y material of his cargo pants.  Exhaling mightily, Jason straightens up with a wince before surveying his surroundings, hoping to see any sort of vehicle (or perhaps any friendly faces willing to offer a ride to one particularly haggard-looking Snow White).

 

With a grimace, he sets off for what looks like one of the ever-common old Jeeps that pepper the island at least every dozen square miles.  When he is about a minute’s walk away from the matte, metal-shelled vehicle, he adopts a brisker pace.

 

“…not to sound like one of Vaas’ pirates, but what the _fuck_ is that smell?” he mutters to himself, as he passes the front side of the Technical and slides into the driver’s seat, placing his well-packed rucksack on the floor.

 

Around him, there is a barely discernible change in what, up until the moment, had been considered white noise.  The already overwrought middle Brody sibling furrows his brow and twists cautiously in his seat, hoping against hope that the weird hyper-intricate collection of ink on his forearm would have warned him somehow of any serious, imminent danger.

 

Freezing in his spot, he locks gazes with a sleepy-looking bear cub— one of two that must have been napping on the extremely warm metal bed of the Technical on a fairly overcast day.  At least the two furry creatures seem as surprised to see him as he is to see them.  Idly, he wonders why such young offspring are alone in such a remote area.  Typically, after all, the mother bear-

 

A crash comes from somewhere nearby, and Jason whips his head about to see (and hear) a dozen rainbow-hued tropical birds cut through the air above the tree line straight ahead.

 

“Speak of Yogi the devil.”

 

Behind him, the two bear cubs make some sort of a plaintive squeal in tandem.

 

His bag slung over his back in mere milliseconds, Jason makes his way back uphill, tree-climbing poisonous reptiles be damned.  Behind him, a very large and very aggrieved mother bear charges past her progeny, vocalizing a loud mixture of a bellow and a roar.  The sound serves as excellent additional motivation for the already rather harried human fleeing her wrath to find his only remaining Sprint Boost syringe.

 

Already well ahead of his pursuer, he spares a moment to bemoan his depleted stock of Animal Repellant syringes that had been exhausted after today’s fourth encounter with uncooperative wildlife.  Luckily, he is able to seize the current subject of his one-handed rucksack scrounging, and has the fine tip poised over his skin in short order.

 

Oddly, however, the tropical forest about him no longer carries the sounds of the hulking, furry rage-beast that had only recently been on his tail.  (The mother bear, unbeknownst to him, had stopped at the tree line, as soon as the threat to her young had been sufficiently taken care of.)  One of Rook’s greatest lessons has been to avert one’s gaze from the mouth of any gift horse one encounters, and so Jason simply continues his hike, eventually cutting through a detour to what should be a settlement of some sort.

 

Behind him, he does not notice the item that has fallen to the ground from his frantic rummaging through his satchel; the moderately sized parcel is partially soaked through, off-white twine and several layers of brown paper are darkened with some unknown substance.

 

___________

 

Concurrently, back in Amanaki Village, Dennis places a _very_ similar-looking package on a table beside his modestly-sized makeshift ‘stove’.  (Really, it’s a little fire-pit set toward a corner, filled with hot embers and coals and stones, emanating a great deal of heat, but not a single wisp of smoke.)

 

Resting over the arid area is a very visibly handmade cast iron pan, filled with earthy, sweet-smelling spices, several dark green leaves, and finely diced root vegetables.  Aerating the space above the skillet by way of a lazily waving hand, he deftly unties the durable loops of string keeping the waxy paper gathered up and wrapped efficiently.

 

The Liberian ex-pat grabs for the parcel’s contents and as soon as his fingers find the unexpected, metal-slick texture of several small objects, he actually looks directly at what he is about to add to his supper.

 

“… _what the—_?” he remarks, expressively.

 

Though hard to hunt down and very costly, hollow-point rounds do not a good dinner make.

 

It _also_ means that the _only_ other place his uncooked cut of imported honey and sriracha-marinated duck from the distant mainland could be is with— with-. Oh. _Eeh-menh._

 

Dennis’ eyes widen.

 

The equivalent of an ursine ‘scooby snack’ sits concealed on the person of a man currently traversing a dangerous, predator infested (and _especially_ bear-heavy) part of the island’s mostly uncharted jungle.

 

“Ah, _shit_ ,” he says to himself with even more effusive urgency, twisting to the side and frantically feeling around for his mobile phone.

 

___________

 

The very man in question scowls to himself (and at anything unlucky enough to be part of the arboreal scenery surrounding him), easily maintaining an expression that has, again, made its home on his visage for just short of a straight hour, now. Cresting one last hill, at last clear of the jungle and its thick underbrush, his expression eases when, finally, a safe outpost comes into sight.

 

Thank _fuck_.

 

“I’ve been through a lot of shit as Snow White, but I definitely think I might wanna’ go with Goldilocks, after today,” he mutters to himself.

* * *

 

 

 **Eeh-menh –** Equivalent of ‘oh my god/goodness’. ( _Liberian English slang_ ) 

 

Ugh. This was written  _forever_  ago and I don't think I like it?... whatevs. The point of these things is just to force myself to write, however it might turn out. ://

 

Next time, more Jason in peril! Maybe. I forget what order I wanna post these in.

___________

 

Come find me on [Tumblr](http://www.citraisafuckboy.tumblr.com)! :3

 

**Author's Note:**

> Be niiccee to meee. This series of works is still only the second thing I have *ever* written, so I am very much in the learning process. (And my weird self-conscious ass still hasn't mustered up the guts to find a beta. Urghhh.)  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> P.S. I looooves me some kudos! *hint hint* And damn, feel free to leave a little comment, down below, too! <33


End file.
